Miechlin Mikya is a young black woman who is built like that white cartoon man who advertises tires. Therefore her street name is Miechlin, after the company that sells those tires. That might seem cruel to white folks—where it is merely an accurate state of critical observance to us black folks. What is cruel, is the second name in her street name, which is the first portion of her three part government name: Mikya, really? What was her crack ho mother smoking that decided her on naming her only ghetto-begotten daughter after the sound made by an Eskimo slurping down whale blubber?

This is not just an example of T. Spoone Slickens, Inquire, picking on another dumb ghetto fool. No, indeed. You see, when you young hoppers, who have done nothing and have accomplished even less, reproduce quite by accident, you get the bright idea of naming your baby hopper in such a way as to be not only meaningless, but nigh unpronounceable to white folks. This has two effects:

1. Some white folks will get angry about being forced to pronounce a stupid made-up ghetto name, and limit their discourse with you, which was of course your dumbass mother’s idea, who thought no further ahead than pissing off the judge that would be hearing your case. White folks irritated by being harangued by you for misspelling something that is not spelled the way it is pronounced, or for pronouncing it like it is spelled, will limit their interactions with you. And since these very white folks have access to the opportunity that your dumbass parents are always whining about not having access to, their declining to interact with you—or in cases where the law says they have to interact with you, minimizing said interaction—will limit your access to opportunity.

2. White folks who suffer from SWPS will feel sorry for your unlucky ass and will give you that which you should work for, thereby depriving you of crucial life lessons and opportunity for character development.

Now, despite her unfortunate twin moniker, Miechlin Mikya [who expects people who can read to pronounce the name on her name tag Mik-i-ya] has landed a job. She works as a cashier at one of the few retailers in the Mondawmin area that was not destroyed during the riots, where a small army of hood-rats destroyed the businesses and homes that made living in that wretched neighborhood bearable for black folks. There ain’t a white person who buys squat up in there. White people see that [black people burning their own community], and think that all black people are stupid, causing them to forget their own raging stupidity, resulting in continued white stupidity.

One day, as I was purchasing my Kenyan coffee beans at the grocer, Mikya was running Register #11, which I suppose is some kind of joke, beings how she cannot count that high, unless she breaks out those painted toenails, which she cannot see in any case.

There were three of us in line: a black lady, a white lady, and yours truly. While halfway through the black lady’s appreciable order, Mikya, said, “I’m hungry—and this chicken looks good. I’ll be right back.”

To the white lady’s astonishment, Mikya walked across the store to the fried chicken counter, placed an order, had the order filled, returned to her register, and then resumed ringing out that lady’s order as she slurped on her unpaid for fried chicken!

The white lady then turned to me and said, “I can’t believe this. How come the customer is not upset, has not called the manager—I’ll call the manger and get this straightened out.”

I shushed the lady and promised to enlighten her out of earshot of Mikya, who was casting eyes of intimidation about.

Mikya then rang out the black lady and took care of the white lady, before seeing to my payment, all the while sucking the chicken grease and breading from her painted nails. I walked the lady outside and informed her, as politely as I might, that she suffered from SWPS.

“Miss, the customer has been desensitized to rudeness, not in the manner of passive acceptance to rudeness, but as a matter of survival. For example, last year, a white man and woman on the bus with their handicapped child, refused to move out of the handicapped section to make way for a pack of hoodlum students. The bus driver—a black female—got on her phone and called her sons, and daughters and other younger relatives and had them waiting at the bus stop that she knew these white people got off at. When the white people got off at the stop they were promptly attacked by no less than eight youths.”

“But that is not right!” she exclaimed.

“Indeed not, Miss. But consider, that the MTA driver makes upwards of thirty thousand dollars per year and has full benefits. Consider now Mikya, who makes ten thousand at most, and think, ‘Would she not risk her relative pittance to maintain her status of queen in her own personal space, unassailable by ethics, morals, or other needling notions of right and wrong?’

“Miss, wrong indeed it is. But it is, and remains the reality, which your sense of right and wrong may not alter. To Mikya and the other ill-begotten progeny of a drug-addicted generation, right and wrong are merely fantastical notions that render those who ascribe to these fantasies vulnerable for exploitation. So, as you can see, the lady in line before you was in fact dealing effectively with the reality. Even if Mikya did not phone in a parking lot beating, the argument with her and the manager would have surely extended her stay beyond the time she was willing to remain.”

“But, Sir,” the well-dressed white lady said, “I would do the right thing, take time from my day to make certain that other customers were not so treated, and would demand that the store manager protect me on the way to the car.”

At this point I had had too much, and looked her square in the eyes, raising my voice to an authoritative tone, “Miss, the entire Baltimore City Police Department was unable to safely make it to and from their vehicles in this very neighborhood a mere two weeks ago. Not a single one of the violent actors remains in custody or faces charges. What makes you think that white man in the white shirt and black tie is going to be able to protect you?”

The woman then became wistful and melancholy and said, “Thank you, but I have no desire to continue this conversation. I have become depressed and would speak of positive things or nothing. Goodbye.”

And there you have it, embodied in one upscale white woman, a case of Stupid White People Syndrome so far advanced as to resist all scholarly and persuasive attempts to remove it from the Caucasian brain, as if the very brain of the white person, so suited for innovation, has developed in such a way as to make the eradication of outdated ethical constructs difficult, if not impossible.

“Yes, Mi’Shaka, you actually have a lucid question? Presumably your FaceBook hos are being debased elsewhere in the nethersphere?”

[Expansive ebonic dialogue, redacted]

“So, Mi’Shaka, to paraphrase: now that you are convinced that Whitey is soft and guilt ridden enough to be displaced, you would emulate your savage namesake by importing white slave advisors to assure the smooth operation of your air conditioning unit and the video game console?”

[Affirmative obscenity-laced ebonic response, redacted]

“Yes, Mi’Shaka, it is commendable that you would emulate Shaka Zulu and General Toussaint, and opt not to eradicate the whites in light of their many uses. I could answer this now. But seeing as how I might use a lesson on white exploitation to lure you back into class participation for a record two times in one year, you will have to return tomorrow for your answer.

“Class, tomorrow, we will delve into a special study unit, courtesy of our aspiring post-apocalyptic warlord, titled, Smart White Folks: Who, How, When & Where.”